


After Sunset

by Serenhawk



Series: Cockles in the Wild [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles, Everything is Cockles, Fluff, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Wayward plot bunnies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5076037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenhawk/pseuds/Serenhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha and Jensen get stoned on a beach and end up composing a little Destiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Sunset

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CD (thecollective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/gifts).



> A fluffy little drabble written in honour of Diva, for her birthday.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. No disrespect is intended to those whose names are used.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So, if they ask us to make out, what're we gonna say?”

Misha’s head jolts up in alarm. “Firstly, what the fuck are you talking about,” he asks, genuinely perplexed, “and second, gimme that back,” he insists with beckoning fingers. He ends up reaching for the smoldering joint Jensen holds, face blank while he's temporarily lost somewhere inside his head.

“Sorry, here.” Jensen flips the end for Misha to take, but his eyes remain focused on the small fire a few feet away. A peal of familiar laughter rings in the darkness behind them, far enough away that the light falling from their rented beach house doesn’t reach where they sit in the lee of a dune.

“Jen?” he prompts.

“Uh, you know, if they do it, Dean-slash-Cas or whatever. If they want us to make out, or…or—"

“Screw?”

That makes the other man turn his head and grimace.

“Oh come on, that’s not the face you usually make at the prospect,” Misha roundly chides.

“You and I are not Dean 'n' Cas, Mish.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Misha cheers in retort. “Although I did kind of fall for Dean too, you know.” He takes a long drag and caps his breath.

“What?” Jensen demands derisively, frowning at him until he finally empties his lungs.

“The two of you are like facing concave mirrors, reflecting and refracting, without beginning or end," Misha intones.

Jensen groans. “Aaaand no more for you, my friend.” He commandeers the now stubby end, puffs through the last of the embers and tosses the tip into the fire. Misha studies him as he lies back and purses his lips to expel the last of the smoke. The coastal breeze is toying with Jensen's longer summer hair, and sand adheres to his elbows as he folds his palms under the back of his head, allowing for the hem of his tee to rise and reveal a tantalizingly biteable swathe of skin.

Which, for a few minutes, is suddenly all Misha can think about doing; biting, licking, sucking, leaving a blooming statement of desire and ownership. Or maybe it’s only seconds, he can’t tell, the debate finally breaking his preoccupation and reminding him of his partner’s consternation. _Could_ he look at Jensen like that... feel _that_ on camera? This is not the first time he’s thought about it of course, but it strikes him now as requiring a nakedness he is unsure he's prepared to reveal. Exposing flesh was one thing, but unveiling a glimpse of the spell —the deep reservoir of his feeling— in a much more direct way than they already did when they were in the public gaze (some of which was entirely on purpose, at least on his account), well that... _that_ was different.

But then he considers all the reasons why they didn’t have to worry about the extremely low possibility, and is struck by a paradoxical sense of loss, and defeat. If he and Jensen have to live in the twilight, maybe it is more reason their fictional counterparts should have their moment in the sun? The whole prospect only came about because of _them_ anyway, inadvertently fluffing a phenomena (for lack of a more humble term) that left him with an uneasy coagulation of pride and guilt over the inevitable state of denied satisfaction those whom celebrated it suffered. But, he could concede, they were not solely responsible, and indeed nor would Castiel have been given the longevity Misha's enjoyed (specifically his enjoyable steady income, and his boyfriend-type-person) if it hadn’t been for what the camera saw of _them._ Such was the funhouse mirror of their lives.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Jensen asks, tugging him from the ever tangling knots of his mind.

“They are worth far more than that,” he quips in return, qualifying with “though naturally to you, my love, they come at no cost.”

Jensen scoffs. “There’s always a cost.”

Misha’s mouth slants in a smile, and he leans back on palms dug into the sand. “You do remember this is the C-W, I can’t imagine there would be any action below the waist. Or even above the neck. Or unclothed. Which doesn’t leave much…” he trails off, musing. “Dean and Cas just don’t seem like the hand holding types.”

Jensen gives him a grin and folds out an arm towards him. “Not like us, aye babe.”

Misha smile widens, fondly amused. “You’re treacle when you’re baked.” He leans forward and weaves his fingers through Jensen’s, nonetheless.

“I’m _not_ baked. Just—" A beatific shrug replaces whatever adjective he can’t locate. Jensen looks back up at the sky before adding flippantly, “I think Dean and Cas would have shitty sex anyway.”

Misha’s eyebrows knit together as he ponders by which route Jensen might have arrived at that conclusion. He appears lost in thought, the pad of thumb circling absently over the nail on Misha’s.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Misha says eventually. “What makes you say that?”

Jensen swivels his eyes back towards him. “Well neither of them would know what the fuck they were doing, for starters,” he says, “and add in the fact they’d be dueling it out for who tops. They’d get nowhere and both storm off, embarrassed and even more insecure. And that would probably be the end of it.”

Misha lets out a soft snort. “You seriously think Dean would try to take command of the situation, and _me—_ I mean, Cas.” Jensen’s look becomes a glare. “Jen, sorry, but _everyone_ knows Dean’s the bottom. Trust me, I’ve done research.”

He winks, and Jensen’s left brow arches. “I don’t wanna know,” his companion concedes after a brief standoff of expressions.

Jensen stares at the stars again, inhales and wriggles down, molding a crater in the sand like he’s settling in. They both startle when a sudden low thud and the smash of breaking glass echoes down them, followed this time by two sets of falsetto laughter.

“We’re going to have to go cut them off soon,” Misha remarks idly.

“Nah, leav’em to it. As long as they don’t wake the kids, they’re big enough to take care of themselves,” Jensen argues.

“I’m more worried they’ll come looking for us, with those water guns,” Misha returns, a drug-induced shard of irrational fear shooting down his back before exiting as his brain catches up, reminding him that he is a) stoned, and b) it is, at worst, cold water and drunk wives, and c) to get a grip.

He fights through the inner chaos to catch his previous train of thought. “I think you’re wrong though,” he adds, rising onto his knees. He spins and shuffles to straddle Jensen’s waist, settling lightly across his hips.

“’bout?” Jensen asks, puzzled.

“Dean and Cas. Fucking.” He laces his other hand with Jensen’s free one, bracing himself on his companion's wrists as he leans toward his surprisingly serene face. “I think it would be _epic_ ,” he qualifies dramatically.

“You do, huh?” Jensen's broad smile hints at smugness. “How so?”

“Well, Cas has been wanting to tap that for _years_. All that pent frustration? Dean wouldn’t know what hit him. There’d be bruises, holes in the walls, splintered furniture…”

Jensen’s look turns skeptical, then his eyes light up. “I think— okay, here’s what I think…” he trails off, looking through Misha’s shoulder.

Misha waits, eventually cuing him.  “Yes, you’re thinking…”

After a moment Jensen refocuses. “Sorry. Uh, I think Cas would wanna make sweet,  _tender_ love to Dean,” he croons slowly for comedic effect, “when Dean would really be wanting Cas to hold him face down and take it.”

Misha smirks. “Are you projecting?”

“Fuck you,” Jensen says, but with amusement bubbling under the insult.

“Hmm,” Misha muses further, ticking over ideas. “I think, they’d both agree to go on a date, though neither of them would admit it was a date – and they’d be shy and irritatingly evasive. But they’d make a point of brushing fingers, straightening each other’s clothes—“

“They do that already,” Jensen interjects wryly.

“Bingo! In character, see?” Misha winks again. “Anyway, at the end of the evening, there’d be an awkward pause and Cas would finally —and very earnestly— say ‘Dean, may I kiss you?’ and Dean would be so surprised he’d let him, and then Cas would leave, the perfect gentleman that he is.” Jensen pauses to chuckle.  “Then Dean would go to his room and jerk off, confused and frustrated,” he finishes, pleased with himself, before another idea hits. “Oh, and in the morning, Sam looks at him quizzically over the cornflakes and asks him why he was moaning Cas’ name all night.”

“Because Sam can be a giant dick?” Jensen asks.

“No, because he’d be relieved he had proof his emotionally stunted brother might be getting some.”

Jensen shakes his head. “You’ve thought about this _way_ too much.”

Misha shrugs, but they stare at each other warmly until Jensen suddenly lifts his shoulders off the ground, sitting Misha back in his lap as he rises to meet his chin. Jensen releases their still entwined hands and moves his to rest on either side of Misha’s neck. “Show me,” he murmurs, voice bathed in smoke and whiskey.

“What?” Misha asks, his mind blanking from the abrupt change of tone and the storm gathering in the eyes in front of his. Heated digits curl at his hairline and behind his ears, trapping him.

“How Cas would kiss Dean,” Jensen rasps, focusing predatory eyes on Misha’s mouth.

“Oh. Um—“ _Fuck knows_ he says in his head.

This was very disorientating; Cas was unlikely to be sitting in Dean’s lap when (if!) this ever happened, and (Jensen’s thumb brushes over his bottom lip) he’d be unlikely to be under this kind of... well, assault. But then he _would_ likely be just as confused and over-thinking it as Misha was right now, and now he’s thinking of himself in the third person (Jensen sniffs, SNIFFS up his neck and runs the tip of his nose under the apex of Misha’s jaw) and _for fuck’s sake—_

Misha rams his brain through neutral into park, lets his eyelids fall and inches the slender gap between them both closer. Lips unparted, he brushes them dryly against Jensen’s and then slots their profiles together to rest, sharing the same space like worlds that amassed in a slow collision.

Several breaths later and seemingly transfixed, he tucks his chin back enough so he can mumble, “Show _me_ then, how Dean would kiss Cas,” he challenges.

Jensen hums, low and pleased, then sweeps his thumbs over Misha’s jaw and edges back. Misha opens his eyes to see the flames from their dying fire reflected in the ones staring at him as Jensen pulls him down. It’s rough enough Misha has to slide a briskly placed hand onto Jensen’s shoulder to stop himself from overbalancing, and the kiss he's coarsely drawn into is anything but timid.

Uncompromising though it may be, it lacks for neither nicety nor nuance; Jensen’s mouth cradling his as it’s worked open, tongue wisping under his top lip and flashing against his own in invitation rather than insistence. It ends with tease – a tender press of teeth scraping his bottom lip and he moans (moans!) a weak little noise as Jensen guides them apart.

He finds himself and opens his eyes to see Jensen’s leering at him. “Oh fuck off,” he breathes, still snug in his lap but indignant. “Dean would _not_ be that smooth.”

Jensen lets go and assumes an air of offense, spoiled by the smile hovering in his eyes. “Hey, Dean is a great lover,” he defends, then adds cheekily “besides, he’s been thinking about that a long time. He’d want it to make it good.”

Suddenly the absurdity of the conversation overtakes Misha and a giggle erupts from low in his chest, spilling out into dark around them. “What’s so funny” Jensen asks, face split in a grin.

Misha composes himself enough to answer. “This is entirely pointless, we are never going to have to concern ourselves with this.”

Jensen huffs. “Yeah, you’re right, and you know why?" he deadpans, "Dean will never let it because he’ll never think he deserves it. And he’ll never trust love not to leave.”

Misha widens his eyes as the end of his laughter dies. “Jesus, way to kill the mood.”

Jensen gives an unapologetic shrug and adds seriously. “What? Just telling it like it is. Those poor assholes are never going to get it.”

For some reason Jensen’s flat delivery sets Misha off again, this time his laughter chased by amusement rippling from his companion. “Miserable fucks,” Misha adds, and soon they are both shuddering with silent mirth, Jensen’s face buried in Misha’s chest as he loses his breath and Misha wheezing through his nose. At some point Jensen spreads his knees, tipping Misha backwards so he falls from his lap to land flat on his back, head bouncing on the sand. “Ow!” he yelps in surprise, inviting a renewed round of giggling from them both, Jensen collapsing to join him on the ground, clutching his stomach.

Eventually they both begin to subside, Misha calming with a hiccup. “We’re horrible people,” he remarks lazily after a few moments.

“At least _we_ deserve each other,” Jensen agrees, rolling over to nestle into Misha’s outstretched arm and loop a knee between his.

“Mmm,” Misha hums happily, tucking his thumb into the back of Jensen’s waistband as he worms closer. “At least, we have us.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
